The Doomfarers of Coramonde (47 page)

Gil cleared his
throat delicately. “Speaking of Gabrielle…”

“Say it. She’s
hardly tolerant at the best of times. What with all my time taken reordering
the realm she is the most difficult problem that I have now. Do they speak of
it at Court?” He chuckled with little humor. “I can control a suzerainty, but
how may I command her heart? Or mine? Sometimes we say that we cannot stay with
each other, and then of course we do. I don’t know what will come of it all.
Shallow as it may sound, I think we both content ourselves with the moment.”

Gil nodded. He
didn’t think that attitude shallow in the least. He knocked back some more
beer. “And Van Duyn? Still determined about your abdication, is he?”

“Hah!
His idea of representative government included himself at its head—for the
interim! No, we arrived at an arbitration. I gave him stewardship of a
collection of city-states in the north. Several of them have council
governments already, and he found that acceptable—as an empirical testing
situation. I surrounded him with spies, of course, and Katya is with him, at
least for the nonce, so I doubt he’ll get into much mischief. Besides, he and
she may come up with something I can use in reconciling all the tyrants,
councils, divine leaders, plutocrats and other political wretches with whom I
have to deal.”

Gil snorted.
“More than likely your agents’ll wind up having to save his hide from his new
flock.”

“Well, I wish
him all luck. Had it not been for him I suppose I’d be dead, or at best an
exile for life.”

Gil reflected
where he and the Nine-Mob would be had it not been for Van Duyn’s intervention
and Andre’s spells. “How about Hightower?” he asked.

“He didn’t want
to resume his title as Duke; he says his grandson’s doing well and doesn’t see
any reason to jostle Sordo’s elbow. Too, he and Andre have been doing a good
deal of conferring and investigating. Hightower has found his own new tracks to
walk. Oh, and Andre says that Ferrian is healing nicely; a kind of miracle that
he lived at all.”

Springbuck’s
face became more disturbed. “None of us thinks the troubles with
Shardishku-Salamá are done. Their vitiations have spread across the face of the
world, through its skies and its roots. I fear me that great contests are yet
to come.”

“Wouldn’t be
surprised. Man, we were losing the last one until that eleventh-hour raid.
Maybe you should think in terms of taking the war to them?”

Springbuck
shook his head. “There are too many things to do here for the time being.
Perhaps later on. For example, what shall I do with all the troops who fought
against me? I could disband the levies and Legions, but what about the officers
and leaders who were willing to fight Freegate and me? Too, that would leave
Coramonde badly underdefended, what with new sorties by the wildmen of the
north. On the other hand, I can’t just return those units en masse to their
garrisons.”

“You’ll think
of something.”

“And the
peasants and yeomanry who were in the underground are yet restive. It’ll take a
thousand reforms to satisfy them; I’m not sure it can be done.”

“I rode through
Kee-Amaine today. The people looked content, prosperous. And the refugees are
moving back to their homes.”

“Oh, yes! Many
of my… former nonsupporters have goodly amounts of money and influence. They’ve
been persuaded to commit both on a long-term, no-interest basis to
reconstruction and improvement projects. Much of their savings went, too, but
I’ve left them their working capital, and their heads.”

“Gad,
tough-and-direct, eh? Just don’t kill the goose who lays the eggs.”

“Most
assuredly.” There was a silence then, and different events echoed in each man’s
mind. Springbuck built himself up for a question of his own.

“What of you,
Gil? Will you stay or will you go? You’re plainly restive, but I don’t know
what you want.”

Gil got up and
went to the balcony and looked out at Coramonde, its exotic sounds coming up on
the light breeze and drenching sunlight. At his side hung the sword of Dunstan
the Berserker, to which he somehow felt attached.

He watched
Springbuck’s stag’s head banner flutter and crack high over Earthfast, under
the snarling crimson tiger of Coramonde. After a time he said, “I’ve been
talking to Andre and Hightower. I’ve made up my mind to try to find Dunstan.
And kill Yardiff Bey. Andre gave me a lead.”

“If that is
what you wish,” Springbuck said quietly. “Do you know how unlikely it is?”

“Maybe, maybe
not. I’ve just got this gut feeling that Dunstan’s alive.” He slammed his fist
on the balcony’s railing. “What do you want of me? Should I sit around forever
and mourn her? You can’t do that; I learned that with the first friend I lost
in combat. Dunstan I might be able to help, but Duskwind I can’t.”

“We all mourn
her, Gil. Go, find Dunstan if you can. You can have men, money, anything you’ll
need of Coramonde.”

Gil MacDonald,
ex-sergeant late of the 32d Cavalry, Doomfarer, nodded to himself. His mind was
already working on the practical details of the endeavor. He hoisted his stein
to the wide world.

Adventure!